Losing Sleep
by lefcadio
Summary: In which Arthur doesn't want to sleep, and Merlin is persistent.


The eve of Arthur's coronation, the moon lies hidden under thick swathes of cloud, dark and solemn, promising rain.

He wishes it would come.

An almost starless night, but the inky black of the sky is held off by the warm haphazard lights of the city, which glitter and wink like jewels in shadow. His throat tightens and he looks away from the window, the chill draught drifting like ice across his bare neck. Two candles are the only source of light in the room; they illuminate the table with their flickering glow, but little beyond save for where deformed and strangled shadows stretch outwards across the floor.

He swallows and leans one hand against the table, wood smooth and cool beneath his fingertips, his head pounding and eyes tired. Pressing fingers to his temples he digs in sharply, trying to knead away the pain. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his hand fall to his side. The night is seeming far too short, and he's angry with himself for trying to prolong it.

_I'm not ready to be king._

"Arthur?"

He blinks and squints through the darkness, vision blurry and feeling strangely hollow, "haven't you learnt to knock by now?"

Merlin looks at him a little strangely and says, "I did," with one of those small smiles that irritates-frustrates Arthur so much. "I, er, saw the light under your door."

He notices how Merlin hasn't quite entered his room; hovering halfway, smile now tentative and obviously a bit concerned. The shadows carelessly cover his face, and his hair looks tousled as though he's come straight from his own bed.

"What are you doing wandering around so late?" Arthur's too tired, too tense to keep the bite from his tone, but Merlin's smile doesn't falter.

"Oh, you know. Work. Work-related things."

Merlin's a terrible liar and they both know it, but Arthur's too distracted by the sick feeling in his stomach which knots and weighs heavy, and he thinks _maybe_, it wouldn't be so bad to not be alone tonight. So he doesn't reply, and instead gestures Merlin inside. As the door swings shut with a quiet thud, he watches Merlin approach the table and rummage around in his pockets before producing a small, blue glass bottle, which he places in front of Arthur. The candlelight spills over the translucent curves and dyes a small spot of the table cobalt. His vision loses focus for a moment as he lets his gaze linger on it, rubbing his eyes and glancing up as Merlin looks at him with something resembling exasperation. Arthur glares.

"It's for you. Thought you might not be able to sleep--"

"I don't want it," he interrupts more harshly than he intended, and clenches his fists, fingernails biting into his palms. Arthur sits down heavily and picks up the bottle, turning it over in one hand as Merlin folds his arms.

"But you look awful! Your eyes are all red, and you look as if you haven't slept in _days_--"

In a flash of irritation Arthur flings the bottle away, and it skitters across the floor to roll away under the bed. He drags a hand through his hair and only glances briefly at Merlin, who looks stricken. Suddenly he feels even worse. "Thank you," he grinds out, though doesn't even attempt to keep the sarcasm from his voice, "but I assure you I have no trouble sleeping."

There's silence for a moment, and Merlin has a look of determination that's his not-so-subtle way of saying he's not leaving; Arthur would laugh if he didn't feel like death warmed up, since he had no real intention of telling Merlin to get out anyway. Instead, he just makes an irritated noise and waves carelessly to the fireplace. "It's freezing in here. The least you can do is get a fire going, don't you think?" He lets his expression soften and receives a brilliant smile in response - and really, Merlin is the only servant Arthur's ever had who is so happy to be given orders, and yet so awful at carrying them out.

The silence which has so frayed at his nerves for the past few hours is suddenly drowned out, Merlin clattering around with wood and metal tools. It doesn't help the aching of course, but oddly enough his mind feels a little more at rest.

The next hour or so passes in something of a blur. He's not sure exactly when it happened, but Merlin's managed to get the fire going - it blazes hotly in the hearth, and his servant is, for once, sitting quietly, looking unusually thoughtful as he rests cross-legged on the floor beside the fireplace. Arthur shifts in his chair, feeling flushed and now almost too warm. The firelight dances on the walls, shifting in beautiful shapes and forms, and Arthur wonders if he's delirious.

Probably.

His fingers move up to rest at the juncture between neck and shoulder, his skin cool and clammy. "Merlin." Arthur's voice sounds unsteady even to his own ears, and he clears his throat, annoyed. Merlin's gaze rises to meet his own, and the patterns on the walls disappear.

"Yes, sire?"

Arthur swallows, throat dry. His head is spinning and Merlin's eyes are dark and concerned and intent upon him.

"Are you alright?" Merlin's already standing and crossing the short distance between them; Arthur's all too aware of his presence, tall and familiar and solid beside him.

"Yes," he grinds out, but then his vision blurs again and he sets his jaw, "but help me up anyway."

"O-of course." Arthur doesn't want to look at Merlin as one arm slides around his shoulder, and the other across his chest. But apparently once Merlin's started talking again, he finds it impossible to keep his mouth shut. "You don't feel right," Merlin continues, hand relocating (quite presumptuously, Arthur thinks) temporarily to his forehead, "how long have you felt like this?"

He brushes the hand away irritably and forces himself to his feet, staggering slightly. "Take me to bed," Arthur mutters reluctantly, steadying himself against Merlin's arms, and allows himself to be led. It's horribly humiliating, but at least it's only Merlin, who's seen him unconscious or in pain more times than he cares to recall. But the worst part is that he knows it's all his own fault - depressingly fitting, then, that his cowardice is now resulting in this literal weakness. Arthur grimaces and eases back onto the bed. He knows it's hoping for too much to think that Merlin might now tactfully take his leave, and of course it doesn't happen.

"So, how many nights has it been now? Two, three?"

He watches as Merlin drops to his knees and ducks his head under the bed, presumably searching for whatever it was Arthur had explicitly stated he didn't want earlier.

"It's not _really_ any of your business."

He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to ignore Merlin's muffled voice coming from below, "but you have to sleep sometime!"

Normally Arthur would agree with this sentiment, but when the coming morning will bring tangible, final kingship, he's suddenly not so sure. He exhales and opens his eyes to stare at the dark canvas above his bed, determined to stay awake at least a little longer.

"I'm... going to be king tomorrow," he states, partly to convince himself, and partly in the hope that it might give Merlin some sort of closure, and encourage his servant to remove himself from beneath Arthur's bed.

"Yes," Merlin suddenly appears again, slightly flushed, and gives Arthur a brilliant smile, "at last."

Arthur feels something in his stomach twist and doesn't quite meet Merlin's eyes as the other places the little blue bottle on the low bedside table. "You," he begins, strangely choked, "you think I'll be a great king."

"I believe that you will," Merlin says earnestly, and Arthur wishes he wouldn't look at him like that, "but I'm not sure that you do."

"Don't be ridiculous." He settles back against his pillow and frowns a little, wishing that Merlin would stop having these unprompted moments of insight.

"So you've been staying up all night for days for the fun of it, I suppose?" Merlin's voice is tight, as though holding back an insult.

He gives a strangled laugh, "no, unlike you I'm not an idiot."

"What are you afraid of?" Merlin sounds urgent, earnest, and so _sincere_ Arthur almost can't bear it. "This is your destiny! It's - it's--"

"It's what?" He doesn't mean to sound so bitter, but his servant's words carry an unexpected sting. "You can leave now, the last thing I wanted was to deal with _you_ of all people having such unrealistic expectations of me."

"I --" Merlin pauses, and has that hurt expression he gets whenever he feels Arthur is losing his temper unfairly - and Arthur hates it, because it always manages to make him feel a little guilty. "It's not _expectations_, Arthur," and he wonders how Merlin can possibly have the gall to sound offended, "it's _belief_. Sorry if my believing in you is such a burden."

Arthur ignores the sarcasm and shifts over, "look, sit down. I can't think when you're looming over me like some kind of _skinny ogre_." Merlin rolls his eyes and looks as though he's about to ask why Arthur isn't throwing him out, but then makes the wise decision of keeping his mouth shut. "I'm sure it hasn't escaped even _your_ notice that I have... certain feelings about how much my father expected of me," his voice is tight, and he refuses to meet Merlin's eyes.

_Did I do well enough, Father? Will I manage to honour your name?_

"--and it's almost worse now that he's - he's dead." His throat aches and tears prickle at his eyes, but he's started this and now he can't stop, and god he's almost as bad as Merlin-- "I'm not ready for this. I'll fuck it up and disappoint everyone." The last sentence comes out in a rush, and he's not completely sure it didn't sound like gibberish - but nothing could ever persuade him to repeat it. He obstinately stares out the other side of the bed, because the wall over there is absolutely fascinating when he thinks about it. Should have noticed it before, really--

"But it doesn't matter," Merlin says, and actually sounds as though he _means_ it. And suddenly there's callused fingers against his chin, turning his reluctant gaze back towards Merlin.

Arthur thinks he should really have (another) talk with him about proprietry and the Importance of Personal Space, but Merlin's talking again and Arthur's too tired to follow more than one train of thought.

"It doesn't matter," Merlin repeats firmly, fingertips still brushing Arthur's jaw, "because even if you mess up, so what? No-one's perfect, and no-one's expecting you to be either. A few mistakes aren't going to make you a bad king. Although," Merlin pauses, and finally withdraws his hand, "your insistence on torturing yourself about this and making yourself ill _might_."

Arthur just glares, because he feels that really, trying to dispense sage advice doesn't much suit Merlin.

"Besides," Merlin waits a beat, as though anticipating Arthur's interruption, and looking faintly pleased when it doesn't come, "as for your age, you'll probably find people will forgive a young, handsome king quite a lot."

"I must _really_ be in a state if you're reduced to complimenting me." Arthur feels vaguely horrified.

"Well, I can go back to calling you a prat if you like," Merlin supplies helpfully, "which you are, incidentally, and your current state is a fine example. In fact--"

Arthur presses a finger to Merlin's lips and scowls, "just shut up for once, all right?"

Well. Perhaps he should lecture himself about proprietry, too. But Merlin reaches up to catch his hand, and smiles. He feels faintly dizzy, but is quite certain that's just the sleep deprivation.

"Will you go to sleep now?" Merlin's lips move against his fingers, which Arthur removes hastily. Truthfully, he feels as though he's been half asleep throughout this whole conversation - it seems too surreal - but just nods and tries his best not to look like an invalid. "Good," and Merlin suddenly looks very weary himself, "because I'm not leaving until you do."

He wants to protest, he really does, but sleep is suddenly a much more appealing prospect than it has been for the past few days.

So it's possible that he might be dreaming when he feels a hand brushing the hair away from his forehead, and a surprisingly gentle kiss (accompanied with a murmured 'idiot') being placed there.

But on the other hand, his final conscious thought protests, why on earth would he dream something like that?


End file.
